Hero
by Nova.8
Summary: In an All Human AU, a nefarious group of unidentified terrorists, The Cold Collection, cause havoc on their path to ruling the Earth. When brilliant scientist Bulma Briefs becomes entangled in a plot to seize control over human kind, Vegeta Ouji finds himself called upon, and for duty's sake, becoming an unwilling hero ...


So, I know I have a good few stories waiting to be updated and I definitely should NOT be starting a new fic right now, however this idea refused to let go of me, really! So I wrote it down, and well, I liked it. It works best as an All Human story though and since I haven't written one of those before, I thought; "Well, why the bloody hell not?"

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Hero<strong>

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><p><em><strong>Chapter One: Powerless<strong>_

**LORD** Cold slanted his beautiful face to one side as his dark violet gaze carefully examined his fair skin for any signs of premature wrinkling.

None were to be found, however he did instantly see a small spot of blood at one corner of his full lips. Lord Cold must have unusually dabbed at his mouth in haste after his very rare steak at lunch. Something so amiss in the normally particular man's world was to be expected after the bad news he had received today. Failure always did make him lose his appetite. It seemed as if there were more players to be considered now and Lord Cold did not like the idea of his game being tampered with. He would not be outsmarted on his own playing field, with a plan he had been concocting since he was a young boy.

With a slight huff his red tongue snaked out to remove the red droplet marring his wonderful appearance, as there was no point in wasting a perfectly good dot of nourishment.

Lord Cold then reached over for a scented tissue upon his perfectly organised dresser and gently patted his face clean. He critically narrowed his eyes at himself before bestowing a smile upon his seemingly perfect reflection.

It was time to change the rules of the game, it seemed, and Lord Cold realised that if he wanted something done properly at this late a stage, then he would damn well have to do it himself.

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><p>The drip drop of water against something solid awoke Bulma Briefs with a small startle. She tried to open her big, blue eyes but was immediately reminded by the heavy darkness upon her lids, that she was blind.<p>

Her strikingly bold eyes were covered by a scratchy material and she would have normally complained about the itchiness of the obviously cheap cloth used to disadvantage her; however she was in no such position to do so.

Bulma was a prisoner.

She was being held hostage for three long and gruelling days now, which felt rather like three decades already. She was blindfolded, sitting on a hard but sturdy wooden chair, in a dank and stifling room that echoed at the tiniest sounds, from obvious emptiness. Her hands were roped behind her, the rough material cutting into her raw wrists from all the wriggling she had done to try and free herself. Bulma's long legs were spread apart and clutched to the front chair legs by metal cuffs, so tightly wound that she had long since lost feeling in her legs.

So, complaining about a matter as trivial as the quality of a blindfold was not something Bulma had thought about when she had first awoken to being tied and blinded. Bulma had been petrified.

She had screamed until her throat caught fire and her voice burned up on her, finally realising that screaming was pointless – no one could hear her. Or no one who wanted to save her at least. Then, Bulma had cried until her eyes had puffed out against the fabric that covered it and made the itchiness worse and her cheeks raw. She was terrified that no one would be able to find her. More afraid that her absence would be overlooked for a while, as she was known on occurrence for taking days off at a time from her mountainous schedule. Especially if she and her team at Capsule Corporation had just completed working on a major mechanical project. Which she had!

Horrible thoughts of a similar nature slithered into her head and poisoned her mind due to her dire situation. Being kidnapped and held against her will gave her imaginative brain too many calamitous prospects to ponder on. Like what if her trail went cold and she was never found? How would her family live forever with guilt, heartache and worse, never knowing? And something that left Bulma scared completely shitless was that she _would_ eventually be murdered if not found and rescued.

Bulma shuddered against her bonds with fear and pain. She tried to refocus her dismal thoughts so she could keep herself sane, or dying would not be her only problem. She had not eaten at all in the three days since she had been kidnapped; she had been slapped around a bit but thankfully not completely mauled because she was needed in working order. They were trying to weaken her mental defences, not leave her physically incapable. Which she supposed was something to be grateful for, at least.

Just as Bulma was about to shake at her bonds in frustrated fear again, she heard the all too familiar creak of a door opening. With only her ears and nose available to ascertain her surroundings, her focus and control over those senses had become sharper. Yet that also increased the burning tempo of her fright as well. As if without her eyes to reassure her, her sense of smell and hearing were directly connected to making her heart accelerate in fear.

Bulma did not bother to ask who had just entered. She knew before they neared her, that it would be _him_. The General of the most infamous and nefarious group of terrorists on Earth. The Cold Collection. A sadistic bunch of unidentified bastards, hell bent on taking over the world.

After three days with the General, Bulma knew the thick stench of his cologne all too well. It made her think that he took extra care of himself, but she could tell by the slimy way his sleazy accent voiced itself that he was a real jackass. She may have not been able to see her tormentor, but her mind had already created an imagery of him for her.

Tall, from the way his voice reached her sitting position. Well built, for how his large hands hit against her face or caressed her skin. Educated, for his intelligent use of words and most probably damn ugly for how good his voice sounded.

"How are we today, Bulma?" He asked softly and she was positive she could hear the smile in his voice.

He enjoyed himself torturing her with his freedom of control over her. His heavy footsteps brought him closer to her and Bulma immediately flinched away from him. She whimpered slightly when the General touched a particularly bruised area of her skin. She had been slapped by those very long and graceful fingers when she had refused to comply with his wishes.

"Lord Cold is very impressed with your endurance, beautiful Bulma." It was worst when he praised her. His words sounded so sincere, the back of his hands brushing delicately against her skin, that she wanted to believe him.

That was how petrified Bulma was. She was desperate enough to want to put her faith in anyone, if it meant her safety was ensured. Yet she knew that she had been captured for a reason and she would not be released by these monsters that held her hostage until she bowed to their demands.

In hindsight, going out completely unprotected in the current situation of their world had not been the smartest idea she could have ever come up with. Then again, Bulma was a genius and common sense unfortunately had never been one of her strong suits. In her own defence however, she had been working late because she had needed to remove and back up vital information from Capsule Corporation after the attacks nearing West City the previous week.

Bulma jerked away from the man's touch. He told her on numerous times that she should have felt honoured that she had been given to Lord Cold's General, of all people, for _taking care_ of.

"_I'm sorry that I don't find being held against my will and tortured by one of the biggest, baddest monsters in the world, a common fucking courtesy."_ Bulma had snapped. Even with fear eating away at her mind, her smart mouth coupled with her fiery temper could not be subdued for long periods of time.

However, a few hard slaps across her delicate skin, making her slim neck swivel in a fragile manner was enough to make her bite her tongue until she tasted blood in her mouth. Bulma had then been forced to ask for water – lest she choke on her thickening tongue – something that had been a grave error on her part.

Her head had been pulled back by her waist length hair and water had been gushed into her mouth from a hosepipe. Bulma had choked and sputtered, failing to move her head away from the gushing water directed at her. She was only thankful that the pressure had not been high enough to do too much considerable damage to her person.

So no matter how parched Bulma was, she was grateful that she would not be offered a drink today.

"Nothing to say, hmm?" The General queried sweetly, his voice sickening.

"Screw you." Bulma spat distastefully.

She was feeling an overwhelming spurt of rebelliousness as the levels of her fear rose. It did not make for a very balancing or sensible reaction. However, given her current situation she did not care. She was scared, but she was also angry.

Furious that she, Bulma Briefs, president of the world's biggest corporation was being held against her will. All for her secrets. She would never give them what they wanted. She was no martyr, she wanted desperately to sacrifice the lives of millions for her own, but there was no guarantee that she would come out alive. In fact, she was positively certain she would be killed the moment she told them the truth. She knew with all her heart, that handing over her brain on a silver platter would not save her. In the end it would make her more expendable. After all, there was no such thing as bargaining with terrorists. They weren't normal kidnappers. They had no consciences, felt no guilt and saved no one.

So even if Bulma would have to go down, she would die fighting, holding on to her resistance, and she would leave this dimension happy, knowing that she had beaten the bastards that had held her in captivity against her will. It was a melancholy and fragile thought, yet it kept her belligerent all the same.

"Is that so?" The General asked, his voice sounding disgustingly pleased.

Bulma regretted her words immediately. With her legs bound to the front spokes of her chair, her thighs were spread apart, exposing the sexy black underwear she had been wearing days ago. Of course she knew that her now soiled panties were most certainly unattractive now, as was the rest of her.

Her normally full and thick blue hair felt heavy, oily and dead. Her skin felt grimy and ached from bruises. She was a mess and it was in no way appealing. Perspiration and the definite scent of fear could be smelled wafting around her.

Yet the bastard before her obviously took pleasure in her weakened state. The General wanted her because he seemed to enjoy her sorry state so much. It scared her, she feared for what it would mean if he ever had the opportunity to do with her as he pleased. For now he was simply following the orders of his Lord, as he expressed sadness over this fact every hour or so when he visited her.

Bulma was thankful for that alone. She was not allowed to be raped while being kept to extort information from … yet.

Bulma squealed as the General's fingers trailed precariously close to the inside of her thighs and she tried to squeeze her legs shut. Yet all she managed to do with her lower limbs tied apart, was clench her muscles hopelessly. She felt the familiar sting of bitter and revolted tears brew in her eyes as terror and defencelessness started to settle in more forcefully.

All she had to do was utter a few simple truths and she could be free. Even if she didn't survive – which rationally she knew she wouldn't – there were worst things than death. There really were.

"All you have to do is activate that beautiful weapon and we can make such a wonderful explosion together, Bulma." She shivered as the General's fingers brushed the very heart of her. She felt a wave of sickness nauseate its way through her. Yes, there were far worse things than death.

She swallowed back her emotions and tried to think of anything else but the hopelessness of not being able to see, the despair at being bound to a chair with a raving lunatic's hands at your most intimate secrets and the heart wrenching pain at the worst possibilities still to come.

"Lord Cold, he is merciful, is he not." The General said in a way that clearly said he was disappointed by how _lenient_ his Lord was.

In Bulma's opinion the infamous Cold was simply a feeble human being, preying on fear and barbaric acts of cowardice so he could rule something that did not rightfully belong to him. So she snorted, even terrified, she could do little to keep her disparaging thoughts to herself.

"He sounds more like a dirty little rat to me."

Blood replaced the words in her mouth as she felt the all too familiar sting of a hand cracking against her cheek. She did not mind, for at least the General's hands were no longer in between her thighs and his hit did not have the same affect as it had had the first time. Or the occasion after that. After more than a dozen slaps, her face was so very numb that Bulma felt nothing but a small wisp of pain flutter against her cheek on impact. So she flexed her jaw in true bravery and spat out her blood. She prayed with all her heart that she had managed to spatter some on the General. He really did come off as someone who was particular about blood stains on his clothes, even in his line of work.

He wore expensive garments. Attire that Bulma had no doubt the General did not want to discard. Bulma could tell. She'd spent over two decades in only the best boutiques all around the world. There was something about the soft rustle of expensive material that could always be felt. The pure smell of finery that always remained no matter how much you washed or pressed the clothes, a new scent no amounts of cologne could hide.

"I do not take kindly to disrespect against my Lord, Bulma." She wished he would stop saying her name.

Her name was something that only those who had been introduced to her could call her. Someone who was a complete stranger to her, but who knew her well enough on the outside now, speaking her name with such familiarity, frustrated and angered Bulma all the more. However it terrified her that she could do nothing about it.

Powerless, that was exactly what Bulma was.

Something she had never felt before and she wished she never had to feel again.

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><p>On the fifth day, still held captive by the General's strong hands and whispered platitudes of falseness, Bulma had been injected with something that she could not smell, no matter how much she tried to sniff at it. She was losing hold of her senses; her head spinning uncontrollably, her body lightening dizzily. She vomited onto her lap, unable to keep in the water she had been choked with minutes ago and the disgusting porridge like muck she had been force fed hours earlier. The foul odour wafted through her nostrils and burned her airwaves, making her throat clog with waste all over again.<p>

She pitied herself and so she cried some more. Her head felt too heavy for her neck causing it to loll around her chest. Had Bulma been more functional she would have been able to tell that she was moving from side to side, swaying with the rushing of her excited blood. It was a real glimpse of hell, was what Bulma thought even though she felt a ridiculous smile tugging at one corner of her lip.

Soon she was humming, a sad tune that probably expressed her feelings and so she bent over again. Crying and singing.

Unexpectedly – her senses too weakened to be aware of it coming – a shocking blast of ice cold water was sprayed at her. The fierceness and density of the pressure this time, actually toppled a gasping and screaming Bulma backwards.

Her head bobbed against the cold floor and Bulma wondered if she was in some sort of dungeon or cellar now. However, there was no smell of wine nearby, only the taint of acidic blood. Although that could have been all Bulma, she had so many aberrations she wondered how she had managed to remain whole while she had been emotionally and physically ripped at. And still she had not opened up at the seams yet.

Bulma fought with all her willpower to remain conscious. It was difficult to do so when her heart was beating so fast she felt like it had replaced her eardrums and her body started to wrack with uncontrollable shivers that Bulma simply wanted to curl up and die, just to make it all stop.

And the General was right there with her, on the floor. His voice right in her ear and his arms shaking her roughly. "Tell me the formula, you little bitch. Tell it to me now." She had never heard the General sound so out of sorts before.

He had always been so calm and cool, completely collected. Bulma was in too deep a stupor to ponder why this was. She was quivering from the blast of the water and while she was glad that she was no longer covered in her own spew, she hated that she was lying on her back like some bug about to be squashed, the blood rushing to her head from being tipped slightly by the weight of the chair legs. Her own thighs and calves groaned from still being manacled to the wood, bent awkwardly they protested painfully.

Bulma screamed to be let up, but the heinous man did nothing of the sort. Instead she felt the press of something against her neck. Its slickness was slicing into her skin and even in her drowsy state; Bulma knew that the blade against her flesh could easily slit her throat at any moment.

"I'm too valuable. You need me." She was uncertain if she had spoken out aloud, or if those words simply echoed thunderously and brazenly in her head, because she was actually terrified to think that she was about to die.

For all her courage at thinking that death was easier, Bulma was not yet ready to have her life ended in murder. She was twenty seven years old. At her prime. She had time on her hands. She was intelligent and beautiful and she had plans to make the world a better place.

Bulma was not a _bad_ human being. She could be selfish and controlling at times and sure she was bossy and loud, excessively vain even – maybe – but, she was only human. Having faults did not make her any less worthy of living. She had never felt that being faultless was interesting anyway. Even science was not perfect. It kept evolving and so would she. Her faults would change in time and she would eventually be the best person she could be.

"I don't want to die." Bulma spoke out aloud this time. Her mouth separated like a dogs whine, saliva had collected in globs of drool and it was a very feeble and depressing sound to hear herself make. Yet it was true, she wanted to live.

If that meant her begging for her life, then by Kami she would grovel for it. She would do anything to postpone an early demise. Fat tears trailed down Bulma's cheek, their warmth almost comforting against her cold flesh.

"And you won't, Bulma." The General sounded somewhat like himself again and Bulma listened at his words. Yet she noticed that his movements weren't as controlled or refined as they normally were. His fingers shaky, his caresses rushed. Something about him was panicky and harried.

What was going on?

Bulma felt the brush of something against her face, coarse material, and slowly the heat of the General's words seeped through the cloth and whispered against her face. He was wearing a mask? She had no doubt that she was feeling the tip of a nose and hot breath through fabric. Why was he wearing a mask?

"Tell me; just tell me what the formula is then. _Tell me!_" He shouted and Bulma jerked in his muscular hold from the surprise of hearing him scream.

She sobbed out in askance; she could not give him the formula. It wasn't because Bulma was thoroughly afraid of how many people her idea could kill, but because she did not know the answer herself. The absolute truth was that her initial design had been flawed and imprecise in the first place. Then, on further discussion, due to the nature of such an invention, her weapon had been scrapped. For fear that it would fall into the wrong hands.

Her father and King Fury had been right to forgo the production of her idea. It had been far too threatening for human kind and she did not want to be the reason for Earth's destruction. Bringing her machine to life could have been worse had someone evil managed to get their hands on it and redesigned the structure for their own malevolent purposes. Bulma shuddered to think what a monster like Lord Cold would do with such a weapon of mass destruction.

Now that Lord Cold was privy to what Bulma had started, believing that the only thing required for her designs to work was a simple formula, meant that someone on the inside had betrayed them. And worse, that someone had copies of her original design.

She heard the General's slow growl of frustration and Bulma felt the knife sink a little deeper into her throat. Even though her body was icy from the spray of water, the dribbling of her blood heated and burned its way down her neck. It seared a path towards her chest as if her life essence was draining away. She mentally tried to recapture all her fast wandering senses and Bulma could now feel every single twinge in her body.

It was as if her new yearning for life had just enhanced her senses tenfold. She was more aware of the heavy exhalations of the General against her ear, the feel of the scratchy material of his mask as he rubbed his face against her cheek, the deadly touch of his knife cutting into her flesh slowly but surely. The way his thick arms pressed into her breasts, causing them to throb with pain and making it difficult for her to breather.

Then, there was a loud shout of anger and the familiar creak of a door opening. The pressure above her was released and Bulma gasped as she struggled against her bonds.

She moved from side to side, ineffectually trying to help herself free as the sounds of grunts filled the air. There were heavy footsteps all around her, like someone angrily thumping their feet against the floor, then there were thick thuds, like flesh hitting flesh … fighting? There was a scuffle going on near her, she was sure of it. Bulma tried miserably to move but the chains against her legs and hands were too strong and she was too weak to break them.

Then there was a frustrated scream, not the General, it did not sound like him, followed by a sudden quietness and Bulma stopped moving as well. Afraid as to who the new comer was. She heard whoever it was approach her and she kept incredibly still, trying to convince them that she was dead. She was certain she looked just about ghostly.

She heard the bending of weight and she felt the air around her being displaced. It was surprising how being blindfolded had sharpened her other senses so profoundly. "Bulma Briefs?"

This voice was stern and strict, distinctly male. His words pronounced neatly and confidently but with a raspy accent. Bulma could not answer. She whimpered sadly. "Who are you?" She husked, desperately praying that it was her guardian angel.

Apparently that was all the answer the stranger needed though. Bulma felt the touch of fingers on her face. It had become such a repulsive gesture of late that she jerked away from it. "Don't touch me."

There was a moment of awkward silence and whoever this man was, he did not believe much in words. Or care about what she had just said. His fingers came forward again, albeit this time more gently. They were strong though, more so because her skin was flaked and raw and could feel every brush of his finger pads.

"I am a member of the Ouji Force and we have embarked on a mission to rescue and return Miss Bulma Briefs." He stated authoritatively and formally but Bulma wasn't reassured at all because there was a slightly disgruntled pitch to his voice. Did she believe him? Did she have a choice?

However, all the while he said this, his fingers moved off her bindings, making impressively quick work of freeing her. Relief was something like a spark of adrenaline in her system. It made Bulma deliriously happy one moment then painfully aware of how hurt she really was the next. Tears of joy finally seeped down her cheeks. Remembering her blindfold she felt an inexplicable sense of pleasure at being able to remove the ugly thing from her face with her now free hands.

Bulma opened her eyes but her vision was too blurry to immediately register her surroundings, which was made worse by her tears and so she could barely make out anything beyond the dark shadows in the room. She tried to focus on the man before her, but he was already standing up and turning away from her, examining the room she had been held captive in with a torchlight.

Bulma's stomach was still roiling and she tried to steady her breathing again. Her gaze wandered around the room, noticing she was in a small, tin warehouse. She wrapped her slim arms around herself and hunched forward.

"Get me out of here." She demanded without realising it. During all the time she had spent in the little warehouse she had wished she had not been blindfolded. However, she could not bear to actually see it now, its image bringing home the reality of exactly what she had been through in the last week. Bulma simply just wanted to go home.

There was no answer from the man who had freed her though, as he walked around the room, inspecting it for clues possibly. Bulma felt irritation swell inside of her. Wasn't this man supposed to rescue her? Yet not once had he even asked her if she was alright. He couldn't understand what it had been like to be trapped, sightlessly in a dungeon with a psycho's hands at your crotch. It was sick and perverse and she wandered if she would ever get over it. So she cried more, bile making it difficult for her to swallow, snot pouring from her nose, but she didn't care.

Impatient to leave, Bulma manoeuvred herself onto her knees and tried to push herself up with flat palms. She panted with exertion and she could barely feel her hands and legs but she persevered. She then began to laugh as she finally managed to shakily stand up.

Her saviour turned to finally looked at her and Bulma knew she must look a sorry sight. Yet all she took in was the piercing black eyes staring at her impassively. She tried to steady herself on her feet but soon found that her legs were definitely not ready for the task. She was caught before she landed on her bottom again; her legs swooped out from underneath her.

Bulma immediately began to thrash around in his arms, stale fear still suffocating her. Yet the man showed no inclination of putting her down again.

He did not say a word to her. Not "stop" nor "calm down". He did not even tell her that it was enough or that she would be fine. As if he sensed that she was not being unreasonable, as if he understood that no amount of reassuring words could comfort her. He held her closer against his broad chest and Bulma felt the warmth he radiated start to curl around her like palpable security. Her bright blue eyes now filled with clearer images focused on the empty floor around her.

"Where is he?" This time the man's thick but shapely eyebrows drew together in a displeased frown. His dark eyes were almond shaped, his cheekbones high and his nose sharp, his firm lips a flat line. He had a strong face, much like his arms, and for the first time Bulma ceased her struggling. Whether it was because of this man or the absence of the General she did not know.

Yet the latter scared her. Where was Lord Cold's General? When this man had saved her she had assumed that he had only been able to do so by killing her torturer. Now she realised that there was something worse than wishing death upon a living being … the General had managed to escape.

Fear started to gnaw its way into Bulma's being all over again. So she reminded herself that this man was here to rescue her. Bulma saw the familiar Ouji crest imprinted on one side of his neat black uniform and King Fury's insignia of the Earth and a bone on the other side and immediately felt safety settle upon her like a warm blanket.

Bulma instantaneously settled herself closer into the well built man, arms tightening around his neck, drawing from his heat and strength, refusing to think about the General, as heavy footsteps bounded nearer towards them. She tried not to be terrified of who was coming and the fact that she was putting her faith in a total stranger, but she simply could not see any other way out.

Her mystery man did not seem to have any issues with carrying her for long periods of time though and thankfully he did not set her down. Bulma heard someone speak to him yet her senses were slowly beginning to shut down when she realised he was conversing with back up. She could only pick up bits and pieces of the conversation around her. The men spoke in hushed tones and her saviour barked a few orders that Bulma was not feeling up to registering.

However she did pick up on his name. It was an all too familiar name and she wondered if she was dreaming. She forced herself to open her eyes once again and she just managed to catch the blurry outline of flame shaped hair before her heavy lids closed again. Feeling more reassured than before, Bulma snuggled closer into his arms and inhaled the scent of spice and leather.

Just before reality faded away completely and she had no connection with her consciousness any longer, before her world went black, Bulma whispered against his neck, "Thank you, Vegeta." And her chapped lips imprinted a fluttery kiss against the heated flesh beneath which his pulse lay.

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><p><span><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I always enjoy starting off by leaving loads of questions unanswered, so fear not, everything will come together as the story progresses. Let me know what you think, as always, I value constructive criticism but not flames! ;-)


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